Skip to content

Atari (Cicadas and Sunrise)

September 17, 2013


We played chess.
Sat cross legged on the floor.
Barely dressed.
I could have died.
There amongst the motes of dust.
Hanging in the blades.
Of a pale November sun.
You were hungover.
And I was still drunk.
A little.
Drunk enough to suggest.
We climb out of bed.
And sit on the floor.
And play chess.

You played white.
And your shoulder showed above.
The loose neck of the t-shirt.
You’d put on.
Then pulled off.
Then put on.
After we’d made love.
It was mine.
And it smelt of Hugo Boss.
Mixed with whatever you put in your hair.
My bed smelt like it for days.

I could have died.
There with Leonard Cohen on the stereo.
The heat of the room.
Drawing beads of condensation.
From the cracked glass of the window.
I played black.
And stared at the inside of your thigh.
I wouldn’t say terrified.
But uncomfortable.
With how very comfortable you seemed.
That this moment should be so perfect.
As if perhaps you didn’t notice.
Perhaps, had never dreamed of this.

And I watched how keenly you looked.
At all the little pieces.
Watched the reflexive curling.
Of all your little toes.
Watched the untroubled face you wore.
You looked up at me.
Your hair fell to one side.
I could have died.
As we sat cross legged on the floor.
And played chess.


From → Poetry

Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: